


Talking to Strangers

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:31:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has always been a little too curious for his own good, and certainly for anyone else’s. When he was younger, he ran flowers through the tiny flames of his mother’s decorative candles, wondering absently why the petals changed color but the fire never did. It seemed unfair, almost duplicitous. </p><p>Sort of like Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talking to Strangers

The first thing Peter notices about his young lover is the color of his eyes, an uncommon shade of honey brown. Stiles always thought they were average, just like the rest of him. Nothing about the boy has ever been average. The first time they meet, Peter takes his chin in calloused fingers, brushes his thumb over a speckled cheek, and says, “I’ve never seen  this eye color in a human before. It’s lovely.”

“It’s  _brown_.” Stiles frowns, too confused to pull away. 

“More golden, really.”

“But still  _brown.”_

Peter smiles. “People with brown eyes can see better in the dark. They are perceived more often as warm and kind, and tend to garner trust more easily.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What about ‘gold’?”

“Touched by magic.” Peter releases him, but he can’t make himself step back. He’s fixated on the man’s face, the confident flash of teeth and the brilliant blue of his eyes, glowing in the dim of the parking lot. 

_Blue blue blue._

_What does that mean?_

The first thing Stiles notices about Peter are his eyes. 

—

Stiles has always been a little too curious for his own good, and certainly for anyone else’s. When he was younger, he ran flowers through the tiny flames of his mother’s decorative candles, wondering absently why the petals changed color but the fire never did. It seemed unfair, almost duplicitous. 

Sort of like Peter. 

But he can’t snuff Peter out, can’t place him. The idea of controlling how or when Peter comes to him is laughable. At first their encounters could be mistaken for pure coincidence, but gradually his appearances become regular. He always appears in the distance, his posture perfect and his smile an echo of a normal pleasant expression. 

It makes Scott nervous. He wants to tell an adult. 

Stiles tells him no. It’s all right. Even if he  _could_ make Peter go away, he doesn’t want to. With Peter around, things have become interesting. Stiles isn’t delusional. 

He can  _sense_ that more than one something about Peter isn’t quite right. 

He just wants to see what happens. 

And those pretty blue eyes don’t hurt. 

—

Having a parent in law enforcement is a little like being raised by a public service announcement in some respects. You either behave like a perfect little angel, or you learn how to maneuver so that the blame falls elsewhere. It’s a matter of wiggle room and creative storytelling. 

So when he gets in the car with a stranger, Stiles has a proper excuse prepared for when his father questions him later. “I’m studying,” He says as Peter pulls away from the curb. “Teach me something.”

“Burns aren’t limited to three degrees. There are actually six.”

“Really?”

“You usually only hear about the first three. By the time you reach a third-degree burn, it stops hurting. The nerves are all too damaged to send pain signals. You  _physically lose the ability to feel pain,_ but of course things could always be worse. Permanent scarring, skin grafts, amputation, a life of nightmares remembering what it feels like to  _melt._ ”

“You can live through…?”

“You can live through all six.”

“…but why would you  _want_ to?”

“Revenge.”

Stiles stares at him for a moment, pretty golden-brown eyes unblinking as he tries to put together a puzzle with half the pieces scorched and warped. He should be feeling scared, maybe disgusted. Instead, he is fascinated at the idea of someone peeling layers of flesh and continuing on, flayed open with bones burned black for the simple promise of retribution. 

It’s poetic, even though he knows it shouldn’t be. 

Peter smiles and turns on the radio.

—

Peter’s apartment is warm and neat, lined with bookshelves and rich with the smell of some essential oil Stiles can’t quite put his finger on. He watches as Peter removes his coat and hangs it on the rack, shifting from foot to foot before finally stripping off his overshirt. 

“You’re not  _obligated_ to remove a layer.” Peter chuckles, then stops short when Stiles’ hands make their way to the hem of his tshirt. 

“I want to do it anyway.” Stiles’ voice only shakes a little as he peels off the shirt and lets it fall to the floor. He’s self-conscious and more than a little afraid, but Peter’s eyes are parking-lot bright again and mapping him like he’ll need to remember this for a great escape. 

His palm is broad and his skin is hot against the Stiles’ bare hip. Even though the apartment itself is warm, the boy gives in to shivering. “I’m not a very nice person.” 

“I know.”

“And yet.”

“I’m not a very nice person either.”

When Stiles runs his tongue over Peter’s teeth, he cuts it on the sharp edge of a canine. Peter’s fingers are tangled in his hair and his nails, too, are sharp. Stiles is beginning to understand, little by little, the nature of the beast. He sighs and moves impossibly closer as Peter suckles thick red blood from his mouth. 

—

Peter wakes to the sound of Stiles rummaging in the kitchen and grins like the devil himself when he sees the boy’s clothes still littering the floor. 

Stiles is humming when he get to the kitchen doorway, lilting a strange, off-kilter tune. Peter approaches while his back is still turned and wraps him up in an embrace with no pretense of innocence. Kitchen sex is something he hasn’t indulged in for over ten years, and he’s certainly not averse to trying it again. “Good morning.” He rumbles.

“I did some digging.” Stiles leans back into the embrace, canting his hips back to rub against Peter’s waiting erection. The sensation nearly distracts him. “And I’d like to introduce you to a woman named Kate.”

Peter freezes, and Stiles looks back over his shoulder. His smile is bright and a bit too pointed, his eyes are a fever-bright gold. “Oh, come on. Did you really think a  _normal_  human boy would follow you home so easily?”

“I suppose that was a bit naive.” 

“It was.” Stiles turns fully, presses a kiss to the tip of Peter’s chin, and promptly drops to his knees. The rest of the morning goes by without any real progress, but Peter is content to learn this strange boy from the inside out. 

In the air, the scent of ginger and basil warms and thickens. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> No, Stiles is not possessed. 
> 
> He’s also not cooking breakfast. Ginger gives fiery protection from evil, and is said to heat up love affairs. Basil is used to promote peace and happiness in the home, and also to protect the home from evil. He’s pretty much evil-proofing the love nest and calling dibs on Peter.


End file.
